


The Pie (or No Pie) Incident

by Punk Pony (Windress)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: comment_fic, Crack, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-16
Updated: 2010-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:37:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windress/pseuds/Punk%20Pony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Comment_fic Fill: Supernatural; Dean (& or /) Sam; Dean gets cursed, it makes him allergic to every type of pie</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pie (or No Pie) Incident

**Author's Note:**

> Total Crack, brought to you by a Random Moment of inspiration while perusing the prompts at comment_fic  
> This is in response to "Supernatural; Dean (& or /) Sam; Dean gets cursed, it makes him allergic to every type of pie"  
> I own nothing, not the show, nor the boys. I don't even own PIE. How sad is that?

So, figuring out the curse wasn’t really the hard part, at least in retrospect. All it took was a couple hundred miles of driving out of the town where they’d burnt a witch’s house to the ground (“House of  _Weird_ ” Dean had called it, like that was funny), a grimy looking diner attached to the gas station, and the waitress’s last slice of blueberry pie. 

Well,  _normally_. When it wasn’t making him hork his brains out into the men’s room toilet. He’d only taken a couple bites, but his puke was bright blue. 

Hey, Sam could appreciate the humor in the situation.

 

***

 

So, again, figuring it out wasn’t really hard. It was just that it took them a while to recognize the pattern, and even  _longer_  for Dean to accept that it  _was_  a pattern and not some pie-related fluke. As if they were ever that lucky. 

“Dean, I think – “ Sam started, raising his voice in an attempt to be heard over the explosive sneezing that held his brother captive, His eyes widened as shredded coconut literally  _burst_  out of Dean’s nose (the heathen never took to covering his sneezes), and hit him like a tossed handful of confetti, right in the face. 

Here is where Sam probably should have remained calm. Instead he flailed disgustedly at the snowfall of Coconut shavings all around their diner booth, and let his voice climb two octaves as he cried out, “Dean, Oh my God,  _Stop!_ ” Because damn if his brother weren’t still  _reaching for his fork_ , even if his face was red from sneezing and expelling some sort of cursed pie element from his orifices. At wits end, Sam reconciled himself with skipping the bill (the waitress would probably thank him), grabbed Dean and beat a hasty retreat. 

  
**** 

 

Several hours later (because that’s how long it took the sneezing fits to wear off, and Dean refused to let either of them in the Impala until he was certain the threat of coconut assault had passed), Sam sat in the passenger seat with his jaw clenched, slouched down into his hoodie as if it could somehow protect him from Dean’s incessant whining. 

“I’m in hell.  _We’re_  in Hell! We must be! This is some sort of Special Hell for people who totally love Pie!” Dean sounded actually physically pained, his downward spiral in the phases of coping having freshly hit the ‘Why Me?’ stage. Sam prayed Acceptance was coming up, because he really couldn’t take much more of this. 

“We’re not in hell, Dean,” he replied tiredly, “we’re just…  _you’re_  cursed. And while that isn’t exactly an uncommon thing, this seems to be the only time a witch actually hit you wear it hurt.” 

Dean made a beleaguered noise, like a whimpering groan, and Sam turned from his window to look at him. He was vaguely curious how the witch knew to target pie specifically, if they’d ever mentioned his brother’s special devotion to the dessert. Or maybe she’d just cast some sort of catch-all spell, in which Dean became allergic to whatever thing he loved most. 

Which really wasn’t saying much for Sam, was it? The younger Winchester felt another surge of irritation and grunted. “We need to call Bobby. That witch was like seven states ago, who knows where she’s got to by now.” 

“I think I’d rather go find the witch…” Dean muttered, almost too low to hear. He looked rough, slumped in the driver’s seat with his wrist resting on the inside curve of the Impala’s steering wheel. His sunglasses were on as if he had a hangover, and for all Sam knew, he did. 

Sam snapped back, “Hey, do you want this fixed quick, or what?” 

And well. Dean couldn’t really argue with that.

 

*** 

 

Bobby, of course, laughed his ass off. 

Dean scowled down at the phone set on speaker between them, and Sam had to carefully school his features into complete seriousness. It  _was_ pretty funny. Especially if you weren’t the one who had to listen to Dean bitch. 

Bobby was still cackling when he said, “I think this might be better than the time that Succubus made you attractive to  _Dogs!_ ” Which hadn’t been funny then, or even when they were speeding out of town,  a pack of horny mutts on their bumper. 

Dean pouted and snarled, all at once. “I hate you and I hope Rumsfeld eats your hat!” 

“yeah, yeah,” Bobby seemed unconcerned, but he’d finally regained control of himself and the rustling of papers could be heard over the line. “Lesee… this is a pretty standard ‘taste of their own medicine’ whammy here… how long you said it’s been happening?” 

Same spoke up, “About a week and a half now. It took a couple of diners to convince Dean…” He shot his brother an amused look, but the older Winchester was too deep in his sulk to notice. 

Bobby made an ‘mhmm’ noise, going quiet for a moment. His shrug was heard, even through the silence. “Well. I’d reckon you boys got about another two weeks before it wears off. Less if you manage to put a few more states between you and that Witch.”

“ _Two Weeks?!_ ” Dean’s voice cracked as he spoke; wide, incredulous eyes swinging from the cell phone, to Sam’s face. Sam wanted to roll his eyes. You’d think someone had just sentenced Dean to life without parole. “I really  _Am_  in Hell!”

“Oh for heaven’s sake…. Bobby? Thanks, man.” Sam picked up the phone, studiously avoiding the dramatics of his brother.

“Anytime, idjits. Good Luck.”

 

****

 

It took approximately three hours to calm Dean down. Even then,  the only reason Sam thinks he got him in the car was because he’d reminded him that getting further away meant a shorter time without pie. Now Dean rode shotgun, his arm flung over his eyes in morose repose, too depressed to even Drive.

Sam felt bad. Sort of.

He thought about the things that made up his brother. The very simple needs  and obligations that framed Dean’s world; Keep Sam Safe, Keep others safe, Fight evil, Eat Pie. It wasn’t a bad way to live, Sam supposed. A man couldn’t blame another for enjoying the simple things in life.

When he glanced at his brother again, Sam cleared his throat, trying to sound hopeful. “…it’s not a total loss, you know.”  Dean just grunted, so Sam plowed ahead. “…I mean there’s cake. And  _Brownies_. You like Brownies…”

He didn’t get a response right away, but Dean did stir a little.

Sam ventured, “…I bet cobbler doesn’t count.”

“really?” Dean was looking at him with a fragile, hopeful expression on his face. Same bit down on his tongue to keep from laughing.

“well, it can’t hurt to find out.”


End file.
